


Floating Like An Angel

by davidacorn



Category: Bandom, Blur
Genre: M/M, this is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5042995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davidacorn/pseuds/davidacorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon didn't save him from jumping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floating Like An Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry

I wake up every day knowing I didn’t save him. 

There’s not much to say, but there’s too much to think at the same time. It’s like having cotton mouth at the slightest thought of him. It’s so hard to not feel a ghost on my shoulders every moment of everyday, like when I make coffee by myself. Graham always liked wearing nerdy shirts and boxers when he made coffee for us, the smell of sex still in his hair. He didn’t have to wear his glasses to make a damn pot of coffee so he put them on his head or he left them in the bedroom. The sheets still linger with him, every damn poster in our room is his. There’s so many, they’re either Zelda or old musicians, but I can’t take them down. I can’t remove his things because doing so would remove a part of me.  
It doesn’t get easier when I try to forget about him. Graham Coxon hits like a hurricane. Or a bomb.  
Detonating until he breaks me down again.  
If this weren’t for Noel Gallagher, maybe he’d be here with me. If Noel wasn’t an ass to me and him maybe I wouldn’t have hard feelings against him. Oasis vs Blur isn’t a problem, but Noel vs me will always be a bruise.  
I wear his tee shirts and I wear his boxers, I have his lingerie stacked in the closet, I have all of his notebooks everywhere on the floor, his diary is in the bed shelf. The mirror that’s reflected our faces near the wall in front of me doesn’t bring me comfort. It’s like looking at a dead person.  
The dead person is me.  
I’d rather it be me.  
I miss Graham Coxon.  
Alex and Dave didn’t even know we were lovers.  
The words that were spoken after the incident were horrible.  
Dave said, “Oh shit.”  
Alex looked at me, drunk off his ass, feeling my aura. But he didn’t say anything.  
And I whispered, flabbergasted, “I didn’t save him.”  
And I didn’t.  
Maybe that’s why I shoot up heroin every night trying to get away from his memory. I want to remove myself of my love, but it just makes the demons shoot through my body differently. Tears aren’t floods- but my thoughts shoot to my toes. They send signals everywhere and I take those moments to wish it was Graham with me instead of a needle.  
I’m addicted to the lad more than any drug.  
But the drug is all I have with me right now, so that’s all I’ve got to do. Do the drug like it does you and do the drug like it soothes you.  
I didn’t save Graham Coxon. 

It ended with, “I’m sorry, Damon. I love you very much. Please, buy that house in the country you dreamed of.”  
And I screamed, throwing the champagne bottle to the floor, “No, Graham, please! I love you more than I love this damn music competition!”  
And the last words were, “That’s not what you said when you realized you had fans, people who paid attention to you. I wasn’t good enough, and I’m so sorry. I love you above everything, Dames.”  
He floated like an angel.  
Landed like a brick.  
And hurt more than a withdrawal.


End file.
